Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (26 page)

“No, you sick son of a bitch.  It’s sickness . . . it’s filth.  And those boys?  They hated it, and at your trial, they’ll step forward and tell you so.  That’s a promise you sick bastard.  I’ll see to it!”

“Summer, I was undercover.  I was playing a role,” Rawson pleaded.

“Save it,” O’Brien said. “Your bank records, your cell records, and your travel arrangements tell us differently.”

“Summer . . .”

He never finished.  Summer punched him on the nose sending him crashing to the floor.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Hospitals have a certain smell; not quite clean, not quite dirty, something in between and not altogether pleasant.  Sort of like one’s grandmother’s house, minus the freshly baked bread or aerosol air freshener.  Of course the hospital was bright, sunny and clean.  It just didn’t smell that way.  A sour smell, perhaps, Skip couldn’t decide.  It was different from the lab where he worked, even different from the lab where he performed his autopsies.  Different.

He never liked hospitals.  Not that he ever spent time in one, not even one night.  He had never known anyone close to him who had spent time in a hospital.  And, it was interesting that he chose Forensic Science as a career considering how he felt about hospitals.

Skip sat in the waiting area for word on how Brett and the other boys were doing after surgery.  The little dark-haired boy, Patrick, sat with his head against him, mouth slightly open and sound asleep.  Skip had one arm around the boy protectively. Every now and then, Skip would brush his lips against the boy’s brown hair, kiss him and give his shoulder a squeeze.  Patrick never noticed.  He was sound asleep.

The doctor felt that the Erickson boy would be pretty routine, thinking that five or six stitches might do it.  The fact that it was inside his anus and rectum necessitated him being placed under sedation.  Of course, you never knew what they might find once they enter, but the preliminary physical and evaluation resulted in a “minor” diagnosis.  It would be the after-surgery that would require care.   He also had a shiner, and his face was beaten up badly, but there weren’t any broken bones.  He had, however, lost two teeth and at least one other was loose.

Tim Pruitt’s surgery was similar to Mike Erickson’s, but because he was penetrated with an object, then raped, the attending physician thought it might be more than minor.  Just how much, he wasn’t sure until he took a closer look.

Fitz and Brett were different stories.  Both had shoulder wounds, but the bullet in Fitz rattled around a bit, nicking his lung and in general, “created a bit of havoc” to quote the surgeon.  In Brett’s case, because he was so small, malnourished and dehydrated, the bullet did even more damage.  It didn’t touch the lung, but it nicked several large veins, just missed an artery, damaged muscle and other tissue and eventually exited out his armpit and entered his upper arm, nicking his triceps.  His surgery would take more time and the rehab even longer.

Johnny Vega was in intensive care being treated for dehydration, complicated by pneumonia, or vice versa.  The doctors weren’t sure.  He was on oxygen and an IV drip, and he wasn’t allowed visitors yet.  Skip had looked through the window at him, and Johnny tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace.  He did manage to flash a weak thumbs up, which Skip reciprocated.  Then, Johnny shut his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.

Pete and Jamie entered the waiting area and found Skip sitting in a chair, one arm resting on his knee, the other around a sleeping Patrick, head hung low and cell phone in his hand.  It had been almost two hours since they had seen him, and the only thing they had heard was that Fitz, Brett, the Erickson boy, and Tim were in surgery, and that Johnny Vega was being treated for pneumonia.  They wanted an update.

Their butts dragging, Jamie dropped into a seat next to Skip, while Pete sat across from them.  Jamie shut his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, legs stretched across the cramped sitting area.  Pete wiped his eyes with his hands, ran his hand over his face and yawned.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he said softly.

Jamie answered, “I’m too young for this shit.”

He clapped Skip on the leg and asked, “So, what have you heard?”

Skip gave them as much information as he had, then paused and added, “And, I’m out of a job.”

Jamie glanced sideways at him, then straightened up and said, “What?”

“Wisconsin’s closing the Wausau office due to budget cuts, and everything will now be handled out of Milwaukee or Madison.”

“Can’t you get on with one of them?” Pete asked.

He shrugged.  “Roz called and said all of us received one month’s notice and that we were encouraged to apply to Milwaukee or Madison, but there weren’t any openings at the moment.”

Jamie and Pete exchanged a glance, Pete’s face screwed up in thought.

“Let me make a phone call,” he said, lifting himself up from his chair.

He knew he was tired but didn’t realize just how much until he had sat down.

“Things’ll work out,” Jamie said as he smacked Skip on his arm.

Skip didn’t respond.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Pete, Summer, Chet, Jamie, Skip and O’Brien sat around a table in the hospital drinking coffee or Coke, picking at pastry and talking about what they had accomplished that morning.  The adrenaline rush had long since vanished.  It had been a long, sleepless night.  Brett was still in surgery and had been for the past hour, and the attending physician was instructed to call Skip when he was out, but he hadn’t yet.

Fitz was out of surgery but in post-op and wouldn’t be allowed to have visitors until later that morning.  Tim and Mike were about to be moved from post-op and would share a room together at Tim’s request.  Everything went well with them, though both would be uncomfortable until the stitches dissolved. 

Johnny was comfortable and though the doctors hadn’t said it, they were worried.

Cochrane and several of his agents from the Chicago office, along with Pete and Jamie interviewed each of the boys.  Their reports would be compared to the reports obtained from Kansas City and Los Angeles.  One story was as depressing and as disgusting as the next.  The common theme was perversion at the hands of sick men.  Worse, there was the constant theme of isolation.  

Another constant was the lack of food and water.  The boys were given a bathroom break every hour or so, and were given water periodically, but inconsistently during the day.

The agents found the stash of pills on the second floor of the building in Chicago, and it was determined that one pill was Viagra or a similar drug.  The other pill was either a depressant or a stimulant.  The idea was to keep the boys submissive, as well as dependent.   The type varied, and there were at least three different kinds that were found, including Adderall, Ritalin, and Amytal.  Because the boys had learned to fake taking the pill and just pretend, among all the other things that were wrong with them, addiction wouldn’t be one of them.  Each boy had snorted cocaine, smoked marijuana, and drank alcohol, but not with any regularity that would cause addiction.  Each Saturday, the boys were to cut their nails because they had to look their best for each ‘date’.  Haircuts were perhaps once a month, which was why each boy’s hair was long.

“It’s a wonder the boys survived this long,” Jamie said.

The others at the table didn’t say anything, but their anger was a thick blanket wrapped around them.

All three networks and CNN now carried the story, though a general, sanitized version was put forth.  The FBI had pleasant looking PR people prepare and then read statements from all three sites.  They also mentioned that 147 arrest warrants were issued across the country, including several prominent local, state and national politicians, judges, lawyers, sports figures, music and movie industry folks, teachers, coaches, priests, ministers- virtually every walk of life.  The only common factor, and not surprising at all, was that all were male.  The charges ranged from receiving or possessing pornography, sending pornography, to the much more serious rape, sodomy, and in several cases, murder.

Most of the parents of the boys had been notified and were either on the way or making plans to get to their sons as soon as they could.  Those who hadn’t been contacted would receive phone calls until they were.  The Pruitts lived in West Bend, Wisconsin and were already in route, as were the Baileys and Ericksons, parents of Stephen Bailey and Mike Erickson, the boys taken the night before from Waukesha, Wisconsin.  Jamie had also contacted Jeremy Evans to see if he and Randy could come and speak to the parents and perhaps the boys.  Jeremy had agreed, as did Randy, and had at least an hour lead on the parents.

Summer spotted Cochrane picking up a cup of coffee and made room for him at the table.

“We finished the interviews.” After a sip, he added, “Pretty fucking grim.”

“At least they’re alive,” she answered.

“I wonder how damaged the kids are . . . I can’t imagine,” Chet said.

“How can they
not
be damaged?” Jamie said.  “Starved, locked in a fucking room, some of them over a year . . . and God knows what else.  Jesus
Christ
. . .” he trailed off.

“This Jeremy Evans . . . can he help them?” Cochrane asked.

“Hell, I don’t know.  He’s good, and the kids deserve a shot, but hell, who knows?” Pete said.

“The Erickson kid hasn’t said a word since we found him,” Skip added. “Not even a grunt.”

There was silence then.  Sips of coffee or Coke.  The pastry no longer tasty, pushed away from whoever had it sitting in front of them, losing their appetite, thinking about the demons the kids will be wrestling with for a long, long time.

“Can I ask . . .” Cochrane started, “there are rumors that there was a leak.”

Summer nodded.  “Chet and Pete found it.”

“Nah, you and Chet,” Pete said.

“How?” Cochrane asked.

“Someone was a step or two ahead of us, and we couldn’t figure out how,” Pete said.

“When did you suspect?” Cochrane asked.

“We were in Pembine, Wisconsin at the scene of a triple homicide.  We got word that George Tokay’s family was murdered, and their home burnt,” Pete said.  “It was just luck George was with us at the time.”

“We had two possible theories,” Summer explained.  “One was that the third man that had been seen in Arizona was tying up loose ends.  We wanted to believe that one, but it didn’t seem likely because he wouldn’t have gone after George or his family the way he did.”

Cochrane looked puzzled and pulled out his notebook searching for George Tokay’s name.

Pete helped him out and said, “He’s a fourteen year old Navajo boy.  Two of the victims in Pembine were ID’d by George in Arizona.  We flew him to Wisconsin to positively ID the two men as the assholes he saw executing a kid . . .”

“. . . Tyler Hart from Cincinnati,” Summer corrected.

“. . . executing Tyler Hart,” Pete said.  “We made a decision to have Doug Rawson investigate each of us to see where the leak might be.”

“Why him?” Cochrane asked.

“Because he’s black.  He didn’t fit the typical profile of a serial rapist of white boys.  We thought he wouldn’t be involved . . . guess we were wrong.”

“He allegedly investigated and didn’t come up with anything on any of us,” Chet said.  “That was odd.  It
had
to be one of us.”

“Then, Summer remembered having a conversation with Thatcher Davis and passed that on to Logan Musgrave, our boss, and Doug.  Doug said he’d put Davis under twenty-four hour surveillance,” Pete said.

“But Davis was on the lawyer side of the FBI.  He didn’t have regular access to our work and wasn’t a part of our meetings,” Chet said. “So, that still left one of us, or either Doug Rawson or Logan Musgrave.”

“So Chet had a buddy of his do some digging on the two of them and had him monitor their cell phones,” Pete said.

“You monitored your boss’ cell phone?” Cochrane asked, eyebrows raised.

“I got the okay from Tom Dandridge,” Pete answered.

“
Dan
dridge?” Cochrane asked.

“You never mentioned that you reached out to Dandridge?” Summer said, a little annoyed that Pete had kept that from her.

“My guardian angel.  He and I go back years, and he’s a friend.  I needed a consult,” Pete explained with a shrug.  “Besides, kids were dying, two kids were just kidnapped, and a family was murdered.  The gloves were off,” Pete said with another shrug.

“You never told me that,” Summer said.  “Why?”

Pete shrugged.  “I wanted your butt covered in case I screwed up.  I didn’t want it to touch you.”

She glared at him and then continued.

“In Waukesha, Chet’s buddy intercepted a phone call from Rawson to Graham Porter giving him the location of George Tokay with a kill order.  At the same time, Chet finds accounts for both Rawson and Davis with quite a bit of money in them.”

“Almost a half-million apiece,” Chet said. “I found it easily.  Rawson should have found it just as easily, but he claimed he couldn’t find anything on Davis.  He’s not dumb enough to wave his account at us and say, ‘Here I am.’”

“Chet matched deposits from what might have been withdrawals from Victor Bosch’s account,” Summer said. “Still, it wasn’t until the two of them showed up at the Sheraton that we were one hundred percent sure.”

“But what I don’t understand and can’t figure out is why Bosch would risk letting us know there was a leak by going after George and his family,” Chet said.

“I can only guess,” Summer said shrugging her shoulders.  “Arrogance . . . the feeling that he can and will get away with it . . . that he was untouchable . . . and the fact that Porter was his nephew who shared the same perversions, and he needed to protect him from being identified by George.  That’s all I can figure,” Summer said knowing that they’d never know for sure.